


We Three Kings

by AUO



Category: Fate/EXTRA
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AUO/pseuds/AUO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gawain is summoned into the Moon Cell Grail War, he thinks his wish has already been granted. But with as many regrets as he shoulders, the lines between wants, needs, and wishes quickly dissolve. Written for Vigilantism for the Fate Secret Servant Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Three Kings

When he is first summoned, he thinks, for the briefest of moments, that his wish has been granted, and he is in Camelot once more. That hope dies as soon as it is conceived. The room he is in, while certainly suited to a king, is too white, too bright. Sunlight filters in, unimpeded, through windows that take up more of the wall than the actual walls do. Impractical when under siege. The parts of the room that would naturally lie in shadow even with windows so large are illuminated with harsh white synthetic lights - “They are better for the environment,” his master would later explain curtly. 

Although he should have known better, he cannot be faulted for harboring such hope. How could he not, when that familiar blonde, those green eyes, were suddenly again within his reach? The shock is too much, and he immediately sinks to one knee, mind ringing as the floodgates of memories long gone break open. Heels click, echoing throughout the room, despite the thick carpet. That is wrong - Arturia would never wear anything that would impede her footwork in battle.

And indeed, that is the mantra that resounds throughout his mind, the message that his own heart seems to pulsate to.

_This is wrong. **This is wrong.**_

Yet, when the figure before him finally stops, and Gawain finally looks at him - everything is _right._ His hair is too golden, rather than his king’s pale blonde, shining like the sun rather than the moon. His eyes are too green, having none of the gentle blue tint that her gaze held. Yet still, his eyes shine with a sense of purpose that seems to contrast such a youthful face - _the same as hers._

It is clear by the way he holds his blade that he is not used to its weight. Still, the arc it makes as it curves through the air, hitting one of Gawain’s armored shoulders with nothing more than a clean chime before flitting to the other, is beautiful. Though such a boy was never meant to wield a sword, still he had trained to perfect the ceremony.

“You are hereby re-knighted in service to the Harway family. Rise, Sir Gawain, if you shall accept I, Leonardo Bistario Harway, as your Master - no, your king.”

His voice is childish, not quite deepened fully, and yet - still, Gawain cannot help but stand.

The way he spoke, it was too even, too gentle, as if he were pulling them from beneath the heft of something he still had yet to understand, yet even so fully embraces. It is familiar. A will crushed beneath the will of the people, not crumbling or cracking, but turning to diamond, unbreakable. This, he thinks, is the persuasion of kings.

It the weeks before the Moon Cell Grail War, his life moves in a kind of haze, a fleeting dream of a life that should not have been lived. Gawain is no longer allowed to cook for his king - “There are servants who do that,” his lord explains.

He knows it is customary for affluent families to have maids and chefs, the Moon Cell has graced him with this knowledge prior to being summoned. Still, knowledge and understanding are two very different things.

“I am a servant,” he protests.

His king pauses, putting a gloved hand to his lips, before simply stating, “You are not a servant. You are a knight.”

Gawain does not see a difference, but does not protest again.

Instead, the Knight of the Sun molds himself into his king’s shadow. There is no where Leo goes his shield does not follow. He does not cook, he does not clean. He eats only what he must, and does not sleep, only dozes. Rarely does he even fight.

But he hears things.

As his king addresses diplomats, scientists, businessmen - rarely ever his family, Gawain notes - he stands firmly behind him, and hears the whispers.

Needles, syringes, surgery... “Thurmaturgy... directly to the brain,” _“three years old,”_ those are the words he catches from where he stands in the shadows, the words that stick with him, that seem to appear on everyone’s lips at one point or another. He has knowledge of these things, yes, but he does not know what they _mean_ , especially in regards to the king - boy - in front of him. His immovable form cannot help but shift ever so slightly whenever he hears those words. Even more unnerving is that his master hears the whispers too - and smiles.

Upon entering the Moon Cell, nothing much changes. He fights, at last he fights, blade carving through enemy programs as if there were nothing there at all, but it is hardly enough. His will is unbending in his king’s name, and yet - the waters are lukewarm. Without holding back he cuts down his enemies, and they - they seem not to know their own mortality. There are some that think of this war as a game, like the irritating blue-haired boy from Leo’s class, yet there are also some that know full well what is at stake - and yet still fall without struggle beneath his blade. It is neither weakness nor strength that stays their blade - he knows that even prey can turn feral when backed into a corner - but some kind of lacking; when his blade cuts down their life, there is nothing else for them to cling to. Their eyes look not to him, but already into the afterlife. And that distance... His king has purpose. This he knows. When the boy gazes into the distance, he sees past the horizon, into a world of his own making, into the glory and stability of humanity itself. But, if he were to be cut down... Would he be able to hold onto such a distant dream?

The next day, Gawain cuts down his opponent before they can even ready their weapon.

 

Upon exiting the elevator, a form steps forth from the gloom, and makes eye contact with Gawain as he follows Leo’s lead. Julius Belkisk Harway. The Black Scorpion. The knight bows his head in greeting, and hesitates for only a moment before continuing after Leo. Whatever Julius wanted must not have been important, because after a moment, he too turns to go. “Ah, brother,” Leo’s gentle voice rings through the empty halls.

“Leo,” Julius replies, suddenly ungainly, barraged with the full force of his brother’s attention. He averts his eyes under the directness of Leo’s gaze, though Leo seems unperturbed and wears a his usual cordial smile. The silence between them stretches ever longer, the distance between them growing further than Leo’s distant dream. The boy’s expression softens, and his smile falters for a moment so quick that he thinks perhaps he imagined it.

“It was nice to see you again, brother,” he drags the word out as if savoring it, “It is unlike you to visit on a whim so I assume you have business with Gawain.” Julius opens his mouth to reply, but no words come. Leo’s smile deepens. He turns to go, and Gawain moves to join him, but his king raises a hand to shoo him away.

“You are a knight of the Harways - including my brother. Stay and see what he wants. If my safety is a concern, have Assassin guard me.”

It is not until he is gone that Julius finally moves. He sighs and a pained expression comes over his face. Gawain is used to such a forlorn face - it reminds him of Lancelot - but the Scorpion seems more troubled than usual. “It is unlike you,” Gawain reiterates, not exactly sure how to initiate any type of interaction with a man such as Julius.

“Yes,” is all Julius says, before sighing again. Another silence blankets their non-conversation before he continues, “You fought well today.”

“Is that all you mean to tell me?”

“You fought like an assassin.”

Gawain bristles, ready to draw steel in the name of his honor, but Julius speaks again.

“I don’t mean to insult you. It was a good tactic to strike down that Caster before she could reveal her Noble Phantasm - a Reality Marble that cancels the effects of the Moon Cell’s artificial sun.”

There is unspoken force behind Julius’s words. Gawain has spoken with him enough that he recognizes what he really means is what is left unsaid. It’s irritating, almost, and he briefly wonders what compels him to do it - _syringe, surgery, three years old_ \- before hurriedly pushing the thoughts out of his mind.

“You watched?”  
“I always watch your elimination battles.”

“Then you worry.”

Julius is silent.

“I’ve done my reading on you.”

“And?”

“You should strike to kill more often.”

Gawain opens his mouth to explain how difficult such a request is for a knight such as he, but all that comes out is, “Thank you.” Perhaps they are more alike than he thought.

“You think he can redeem you,” the words are spoken after they turn to part ways, and Gawain doesn’t know how to respond to such a direct statement - or even if he should respond.

The reply comes from the Scorpion himself, though his tone is so tender and so benevolent, spoken without purpose other than good will, that Gawain does not recognize it at first. 

“I hope you find redemption.”

Such sympathy, so light, so sweet, hides an undercurrent of words that come from a shadow that runs too dark and too deep for Gawain to comprehend.

That is the last time they speak.

-

“Tell me about yourself,” Leo’s odd request cracks the quiet of the library. Gawain finally moves, actually a person again rather than a glorified suit of armor, and takes the break from his vigil as an opportunity to crack his neck and back as subtly as possible.

“You’re already reading about me,” he replies after a quick glance over the boy’s shoulder to confirm the situation.

“Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

Gawain pauses, searching for the right words. Thinking about Camelot was all he did since he was summoned - it’s all he could do. Yet the thoughts were always of how the air felt in his lungs, the way the sunlight hit the water just so on winter afternoons - small things he’d thought were lost to time.

“What would you like to know?”

His response is instantaneous. “Dame Ragnell,” he states, jabbing an index finger at his book accusingly.

Gawain might’ve smiled at Leo showing interest in women, proving that he - at his core - was still a little boy after all. Might’ve. Instead, his face involuntarily contorts in disgust at the subject of his interest.

“What is there to tell?” he finally manages to sputter out.

“Everything,” he flips to a page, holding it out for Gawain to see, but the knight keeps his eyes trained on his king. “It says here that King Arthur made you marry Dame Ragnell because he couldn’t figure out the answer to a riddle that would cost him his life, and she knew.”

Gawain raises an eyebrow, interest piqued. “What was the riddle?”

“What do all women wish for?”

Gawain tilts his head back and laughs. He can’t help it; the laugh bubbles up from his belly and he laughs until his ribs feel bruised from hitting his breastplate so hard. Leo doesn’t say anything, simply watches his knight’s reaction, subconsciously taking mental notes.

“My apologies, my King, but you see... King “Arthur” was a woman.”

A smile plays at his lips as he explains to the boy why he cannot even retell such a legend - none existed in the first place - and how Arturia would have immediately known the answer to that question.

“...So, King Arthur- Excuse me, King Arturia- was stifled as a youth, having to pretend to be a man in order to be king, and - in essence - had to stop being ‘herself, the King’ in order to become ‘King of Britain’ - the people’s king.”

Gawain nods slowly. He had known the details of her existence as King, but to hear it put so plainly, understood at once by a mere boy...

Leo laughs, and a smile brighter than his usual calm grins is emblazoned on his face. “I see, I see~” he almost singsongs.

That smile forms a rock in Gawain’s stomach, and as he tries to explain the nuances of Arturia’s kingship - _needles, surgery, caledfwlch_ \- the further and further it sinks.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my king - but may I ask a question?”

“I shall permit it,” there is an edge of almost laughter in his voice. Like a child enjoying sharing a birthday with their favorite superhero. It would be endearing, however...

“Were you- Are the things the servants used to whisper about- those rumors- are they...?”

It is now Leo’s turn to laugh, as Gawain fumbles over his words, unable to elegantly phrase the question in his anxiety. His laugh comes from the throat though, in small chuckles guarded with his hand, as if it is a secret.

“True? Yes, it is. I was, of course, too young to remember fully, but I was permitted to glance over the medical records in recent years. The process was... Necessary,” he muses, more animated than ever. Gawain can only stare in horror. “I first had to undergo various surgeries and experimentation to confirm that I was indeed bred with the mettle to become king, and then of course there was the thurmaturgical process that actually burned all the knowledge needed to rule into my brain... Well, in short, I suppose you could say I was much less born to be king than I was chosen to be king.”

_Chosen to be king._

The words are not unfamiliar to Gawain.

The words burn into his ears and sear his mind. He feels like a jailer rather than a knight.

That night, he dreams of her. When she was young, barely a king, and he was still stronger than her. For some reason, Arturia challenged him in the middle of the afternoon. And he had graciously accepted, half out of duty, half out of the excitement at the prospect of fighting his aunt - no, newfound king. Her stance was flawless, and though in retrospect her form then was not even approaching her form at her prime, still, to him it was perfection. She was agile, nimble, and absolutely deadly, yet as his skin flushed under the warmth of the sun and the exhilaration of sparring, he found himself pushing her back.

Then, he was largely untrained. And when she came to him, he had thought it a play fight rather than a legitimate test of ability, so he swung freely, brandishing wildly, laughing in absolute joy under the bright summer sun.

Unaware of her pained expression, he thought himself unable to ever harm her.

He did not notice her blade falter, and so his next swing was not met with the glorious ring of steel on steel, but the sickening thud of blunt metal hitting flesh. She crumpled to the ground from the terrible force of his blow. He could only stare in shock. Kings were not supposed to fall.

And how desperately he had wanted to take her hand in his, to help her up, to right her, and yet - he could not bear to offer her the hand that felled her. He had to see her rise on her own, as a king. So that his illusion would not be broken. So he could forget, and she would be invincible once more.

That was where it started, he thinks.

His first regret was not taking her hand.

He will never forget the look in her eyes as she pulled herself from the ground, with nothing to right her, no one to stand at her side. There was no malice, no hatred for what he had done - only a heaviness of the soul that was the result of carrying the dreams of everyone she had ever laid eyes on - even, especially, him - and in that, pure determination.

In the days, weeks, years, after that incident, she would challenge him again and again always under the heat of the sun. She, too, would fall a great many more times. Sometimes Bedivere would lend her his hand. More often than not, she would reject all assistance and stand on her own. He too would fall to her blade a great many times, and always - _always_ \- he would refuse her hand out of the shame of what he had once done.

When Gawain wakes, he is greeted by Leo’s smiling face, giddy as he was that day so long ago.

“Our opponent,” he starts breathlessly, “is Hakuno Kishinami.”

He doesn’t recall that name. It isn’t until he sees her face that he remembers anything at all. Hakuno Kishinami. It isn’t a name he feels he should be saying now, at the end of the line. Somehow, though, it doesn’t surprise him that she is their final opponent.

He spares her one last glance before following Leo away. Brown eyes bore right into him.

That must be why it doesn’t surprise him. She might not have been memorable, but what he does remember of her - everything she lays eyes on is within her grasp. She does not look towards the distant future, but looks into the very being of all those around her. Hakuno Kishinami. He will not forget her name again.

And indeed he does not as she corners them in the arena, looking out into the golden sunset.

It is her he looks to as he drives back the impostor Arturia - Nero, he corrects himself absentmindedly - and it is her name on the tip of his tongue as she somehow forces the sun to dim.

Her eyes were pained. Her eyes were hurt. And yet, there was nothing to be seen of hate, irritation, or even frustration. Her gaze was iron, unflinching, pure willpower. Despite the sun setting, he felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders, as if she had seen his ever unspoken wishes, and took them all upon herself.

She is formidable woman, indeed.

The days before their final confrontation seem to drag on without end. It isn’t a bad thing; the sentimental side of him swells with pride at being able to see Leo through to the end, and bittersweetly savours their final days together. However, as the days wear on, he sees less and less of Arturia in him. His eyes once so calm, blaze with green fire, rambunctious as a stormy sea. The impetuousness of youth. It is like looking in a mirror. Even when he calms himself, once again fits the mold of a perfect king, something in his eyes has broken, and Gawain can finally see.

He may have been chosen as a king, yet he embodies the will of his family. His wishes are born of the people, yes, but ‘the people’ and their will have been burned into his mind by his family. He is a servant to their will. A willing servant, but a servant all the same.

He wonders how brightly Leo could have shone if he hadn’t hidden himself under the shadow of the Harways.

-

He is giddy. He hasn’t been this giddy since the day he failed Arturia Pendragon. He is anxious. He hasn’t been this anxious since the day Camelot was ripped apart by pettiness.

He cannot look the other Saber squarely in the face. It must look like disdain, but - isn’t it?

He reminds himself that it isn’t. He does not hate Emperor Nero. He hates that she has stolen her face. Like some cruel joke, she was to be his final opponent. He has never mentioned the resemblance, not even to his king. He cannot know of his weakness.

Sorrow transmutes to anger in his breast, and though the sun has dimmed, his blood boils in his veins.

He counts the ways she doesn’t resemble Arturia to calm himself as they step out of the elevator. Her hair is too blonde, her cowlick too long. Her eyes are too green, and too playful. Now that he really looks at her, the similarities to his master are striking. They could be related, twins even.

He does not know if that realization makes it worse.

Through clenched teeth, he cannot stop himself from hissing out the words, “Whore of Babylon.” He doesn’t mean it, but he does, he needs to say it, to separate her from the visage of his Kings. It doesn’t make him feel better.

The battle itself is glorious.

Like a true knight’s duel - no, more like a gladiator’s match - they match each other blow for blow. Lady Kishinami is a dutiful master, healing the Emperor fully after she just barely shakes off Excalibur Galatine in all it’s glory. Sometimes she falters, and he thinks he’s gotten the best of her before, somehow, she pulls herself from her own corpse, renewed, and the battle continues on. Her Noble Phantasm is every bit as guady as he expected, and at first he is relieved it resembles a Reality Marble rather than being a single high powered attack, but every attack she makes in her theater wears him down. By it’s end, it takes all he has just to stay in the fight. He sacrifices the full power of his holy sword to draw on every scrap of the Numeral of the Saint he can manage, bracing himself into a human shield that will not bow. And, in the end, he does not kneel from Nero.

No, it is Hakuno Kishinami that brings him to his knees, his focus so bent on enduring blows from Nero that he does not see her readying a stun spell. And as he moves to rise, it is Nero’s sword, arcing high in the air, that strikes him down, biting into one shoulder, and then the other, and as Lady Kishinami reaches out to them, he feels he has been knighted one final time.

The red barrier cuts their final stage in half, like the curtain closing on a magnificent play. Surely, Nero is pleased, he thinks.

The deletion process turns the golden sky a brilliant red-orange, like the end of the world itself. And his king - finally shines. With tears in his eyes, he tries to stand on legs that do not exist anymore. This is it. Defeat, and yet, still hope - not only his, but the hope of all his people, all of humanity - mingling into one. The ruins of an empire long gone. The brilliant setting sun. This suits him, more than his white palace, more than the Round Table, and he - he finally resembles Arturia.

That it was despair, that finally made his king into a true King to rival even her makes his heart sink.

While his body is slowly eaten away, a single bittersweet memory rises to the surface of his mind. Strangely, it is not Arturia he thinks of. Kneeling like this, unable to gather the strength to stand, he can only think fondly of his first meeting with Leo. To be given a second chance... It was the happiest moment of his life. Yet, any personal satisfaction he takes now is not from seeing his king through to the end - in fact, only frustration lies on that front. To have the chance to reinvent himself, to follow every command perfectly as he should have done in life, and to still be cut down - it was immeasurably painful. Just as he received forgiveness from Arturia, Leo’s redemption was not enough.

But, that girl - no, that King - looks at him through the screen. It is clear, even after seven weeks of this war, she is not used to taking lives. Still, she looks at them squarely, never averting her eyes, even as tears stream down her face. Her hand is balled in her skirt, and he realizes it is the hand she reached out to them with. Under her watchful gaze, he feels his spirit grow calm once more. Lady Kishinami - she is King of this domain. The Moon Cell bows to her. Carrying the fate and dreams of all she has conquered, surely, she must be a kinf od Holy Grail herself. The weight lifted from his consciousness - he is glad it is being carried now by someone who will not be weighed down by the wishes of the deceased, but will instead rise to even greater heights.

The stillness of his mind, at last - he thinks, this must be salvation.

The noise has taken almost all of him, but still he glances at the king by his side. Gawain’s hands are gone, long eaten away, and so are Leo’s. Still, he reaches for his small hand, and void touches void. It is not enough, but it is all he can offer.

“I’m glad I was able to witness you grow into such a fine king,” it’s all he can say before disappearing. He hopes his king could feel his unspoken sentiment, everything he never said, but meant.

He hopes beyond hope that the little boy-king was not alone in the end.

-

His thoughts can only be described as soft as his consciousness sinks into the primordial sea of the Moon Cell. All longing has left him. All desperation. All youthful impetuousness. All regret. And in that peace swirls a question, languidly, like the way Leo would stir his tea, eyes set on something in the far distance that he could not hope to fathom - how could he have overlooked someone as vital as Hakuno Kishinami? The only person in the battle royale, no, the entire world, that could stand on equal footing as his king, and he - he had overlooked her. Perhaps, that was his sin all along. He had acknowledged it many a time, but only as a statement of fact rather than a piece of the puzzle that was Arturia Pendragon.

Before there was a King, there was a girl.

Inside the depths of the Moon Cell, the sun cannot reach him. Still, pinpricks of data dot the darkness, shining - he thinks - like faeries. His fading consciousness is pulled this way and that by the ever circulating data, and it is like floating just above the surface of the water.

This scene is not unfamiliar.

That lake from so many years ago... He doesn’t remember it being so salty. This sea has been soaked in the tragedy of the Holy Grail War. Even so, surely this is the same bitterness that tainted the lake the day Camelot fell.

It feels like home.

If he reached deeper, perhaps he could touch Excalibur. 

If he could reach just beyond his fingertips, perhaps his king’s hand would be waiting.

If such a wish could be granted,

He would never let go.

At the bottom of the sea, he wonders whose hand he longs for.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to put my own thoughts on Gawain's character here, but like anything involving me + Gawain, that quickly grew far out of hand, so perhaps I'll link to it when I get around to making a proper post. For now, all I'll say is - between the seriousness of Extra and the silliness of CCC, somewhere between those lines is where the complexity of most Fate/Extra characters is drawn.


End file.
